


the silence in between

by literarygirl



Category: Inazuma Eleven, Inazuma Eleven GO
Genre: Backstory, Bullying, Canon - Original Game, Canon Compliant, Gen, Injury Recovery, Video Game Mechanics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-08-28 00:04:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16712620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literarygirl/pseuds/literarygirl
Summary: Kousaka Yukie believes in magic.(The rise and fall of a friendship in four acts.)





	1. Chapter 1

Grandfather likes to spin tall tales about Yukie’s birth: how there was not a single star in the sky until her first cry, when the clouds parted and they lit up the night. Sometimes, the first light of morning filters through the blinds the very moment she opens her eyes. Once, her birth fell upon the first snow of the season. She is always born in the house, but every other detail seems to change every time she asks--which is never, really, but occasionally her grandfather’s mind wanders to times long since passed, and Yukie smiles where her mother sighs.

She takes after her mother more than anyone else in looks, with the old family photos to prove it. But her mother is a realist, sharp mind and intense stare with a restless energy that seems too small for the walls of the family shop. Yukie tries sitting up straight at the breakfast table like she does, to emulate her brand of grace, but it is impossible to commit to entirely. While her mother has no time for fairy tales, there is a part of her that beams at her grandfather when her mother’s back is turned, that wants to entertain the idea that she could be born under a full moon, or at the first snow of the year, imbued with a little bit of magic.

That sort of hope is contagious.

The family building is bigger than it appears, at least a hundred years old, maybe more. Downstairs is the family shop, and one day when she is old enough to sit still and read without fidgeting, she traces back decades of family members, all at one time or another under the same shop roof. The business is part antique collection, and part bookstore, but they have always made their name in the trading of techniques.

“Once upon a time, people would have said it was a type of magic, the things these players can do,” Yukie’s grandfather muses, adjusting his glasses and sneezing as he shuffles around the same path every morning, dusting every inch of the shelves and yet still somehow missing the corners. When she is tall enough, she shadows him, and methodically lifts book after book and flips through the pages gingerly. Some texts for sale are newer, hardback with sleek dust covers; some are so old she is afraid to breathe on them, lest they crumble to dust between her fingers.

He’s never actually offered an explanation as to _how_ they can do the moves documented within, and most of the books, when not full of diagrams, are thick with words and theory that go right above her head and meld together until they hurt her eyes.

He takes her to an exhibition match at the end of summer, Sengoku Igajima versus Senbayama Junior High, and in one afternoon, Yukie is convinced that magic does exist.

She is enraptured, staring down at the players first from her seat, then from her grandfather’s lap for that extra inch of view, and then, with five minutes left in the second half, she is on her feet cheering. Who wins does not matter as players flit in and out of existence, as a stone wall rises from the ground at the very last second, towering over the defenders. They are perfectly tied one-to-one and the world seems to stop when, against all odds, Sengoku Igajima’s number ten flits through the impasse and the ball soars, barely missing the fingertips of Senbayama’s goalkeeper.

The crowd explodes around her, the swell of energy surrounding her electric.

(Somehow, in the chaos, she sees a pair of boys four rows down, one with a shock of bright hair leaning over the railing precariously, seemingly desperate to get any bit closer he can. The other is taller, arms around his friend’s waist, yelling--perhaps at him--to not tip over. She has a feeling neither of their eyes leave the field.)

Yukie’s mother does not understand soccer--or maybe she does, but does not _want_ to. She gets a job offer in Sapporo, and does not protest much when Yukie does not want to move with her, away from her grandfather and the shop.

“There are nice middle schools up there,” she says distantly, and after a moment of hesitation embraces her with a promise to visit on holidays.

And then there are no more sighs to punctuate her grandfather’s stories.

(When school is in session after summer break, she does best to hold on to that promise, the last words of a mother that has vanished like smoke. School feels longer with every day, lonelier with every passing minute. No one wants much to do with a girl who smells of dust, who lives in the ancient, imposing building with dark curtains and candlelight. One person’s magic is another classroom’s curse, and she is not the best at conversation. It gets tiring, fending off childish rumors that her grandfather’s shop is haunted, so she keeps to herself, and they avoid her in turn.)

They get enough foot traffic to keep them busy during tournament season, and she proudly sits behind the counter, perched on a stool to properly see above the desk. They get curious adults in on their lunch break, keeping to themselves while eyeing the shelves. First year hopefuls in their fresh Raimon uniforms pass through often, and Yukie gets good at remembering where each manual is, and even better at pulling their names from the half-formed descriptions of excited fans.

Here, she is in her element, and grows more and more confident on speaking about the books they sell. Slowly, the words and theories between the pages starts making sense in a way nothing else has.

One Sunday, her grandfather is in the back. They’ve just opened for the day, and Yukie is slowly working her way through homework she had stubbornly stuffed into her backpack and forgotten about, _then_ tucked between a book she’d been slowly eating through as a bookmark to suffer the same fate. Trying to concentrate, she almost misses the shadows cast in the mid-morning light until they obscure the light filtering out from inside the open entryway.

Yukie looks up and squints, and sees two figures standing there, barely any taller than her. There’s a boy with goggles atop his head meekly standing with his hands firmly on the shoulders of his friend, whose look of determination is offset by trembling knees. He tries to look stern but his lip quivers a little when they make eye contact.

“...Hello?” Yukie offers, setting down her pencil.

She thinks the “fearless” boy gulps in reply.

The girl hops down from the stool behind the desk and treads lightly, crawling under the collapsable part of the front counter to reach the other side. She half-expects them to run.

 

“...We’re open--”

“W… We’re--”

“--Lookin’ f-for a manual!”

 

The boys are not in her class, but she knows she’s seen them before. When the shorter boy tries to speak with his slightly-quivering lips, the boy with the goggles spits it out. Neither of them make a move to come any further inside.

Yukie’s brow furrows for a moment, and then something--the iron-clad grip on shoulders, the singular focus and the shock of bright red hair--sparks her memory to life.

“You… you two were at the match last month! I saw you almost fall over and split your head open!”

Both boys’ mouths hang open, but it finally coaxes something other than fear from the boy in front: “Nuh-uh. Did not!”

“Didja see that last-second goal?” the boy with the goggles speaks up, face suddenly alight. “No way were they gonna make it, but--”

“ _I_ knew he would!” insists the other boy, turning to look back at his friend. They bicker amongst themselves for a moment and Yukie bolts quickly over to the left corner of the store, where the older publications line the shelves. Sengoku Igajima does not make their methods or moves public knowledge. That fact has never stopped enterprising fans from crafting their own versions from memory.

 _Technically_ , this book is from the heyday of the Inazuma Eleven, an unauthorized print of wild speculation that includes one set of instructions for teaching a striker how to make their own “ball of earth.”

It’s heavy, but Yukie drags it over to the counter, where it lands with a sharp enough _thud_ that it takes both boys’ attention from their heated debate.

“Don’t you wanna come inside?”

They look at each other, but when they shuffle towards the front back of the shop, the fear is all but gone.

Yukie drags over step stools to the counter in lieu of actual chairs for her guests, and then crawls back to the other side of the desk to reclaim her own seat.

They spend the better part of an hour pouring through the book.

 

 

 

(The homework remained unfinished for the day.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the end of a friendship is a slow, slow death of a thousand cuts.

They meet at the same spot in the park every day. In the circle of brightly-colored posts, it feels as though they are sequestered in in their own little world. Yukie sits atop the highest one she dares climb, book balanced and open on her knees but never really paying attention.

The boys—Amagi and Mahoro—are in class 5-B and love soccer more than anything else, and spend the majority of their time together passing, dribbling, trying and failing to recreate the moves they see on televised matches.

“So why aren’t you on a team?” she asks, peering down as Amagi does his best to balance the ball on his head.

“We didn’t—hwuuuh…” the ball teeters with an uneven step and both almost come tumbling down, “we didn’t make the cut this year,” Amagi replies, although he doesn’t seem as disheartened as Yukie expects. From the corner of her eye, she can see Mahoro wince, but his response holds a certain measure of confidence.

“Next year for sure! It’s gonna be our time.”

With the way they practice, Yukie can’t help but believe them.

They fall into a comfortable kind of routine as the school year marches goes on, and she learns their quirks in kind. Amagi watched all three of Inazuma Japan’s matches in the preliminaries and still has all his ticket stubs. Mahoro lives further away from school than either of them, but gets to stay later when he comes over. They are also extremely accident-prone, and Yukie starts tucking bandaids into the pockets of her bag every morning before school.

" _What_ are you gonna play?”

Amagi yells “defender!” over Mahoro’s “I wanna score goals!”; the ball slips off Amagi’s head and Mahoro leaps to kick it mid-air.

They crash into one another and land in a heap on the grass, and Yukie tries not to laugh before carefully shimmying off the edge of the post.

(She does not stick the landing, and falls in much the same fashion. They all giggle through bruised knees.)

“So you’re gonna need a coach,” Yukie observes when the leaves slowly start withering. The setting sun starts creeping into their time at the posts after school, and so they end up trailing behind her all the way home. Grandfather lets them keep to themselves, but almost overnight one small corner of the shop has a table and chairs. It’s overrun by borrowed books most afternoons, three children huddled over diagrams and carefully scribbling their own.

There is a history of soccer copied between their school notes and on the back of homework sheets. One day, Amagi begs for them all and gathers them up to go home early. When he returns the next day, there’s copies of them all and a grin from ear to ear: “If you’re gonna be our coach, you need a playbook!”

Grandfather spends the next afternoon happily helping them assemble their own book of techniques, punching holes in paper and lining them up in a binder. One by one they sign the cover in marker, and stare proudly at the results.

(Like a good coach, Yukie makes a training menu the next day. Like true players, they protest when she hands it to them. They negotiate 100 laps down to 75, to 50, to as many laps around the river bank as their legs can handle as leaves begin to fall to the ground and crunch underneath their feet.)

They have to walk before they can run, and so with the first flecks of snow landing on their cheeks, they do just that. By the riverbank, running themselves ragged. By their circle of balance posts, weaving in and out to practice dribbling. Several times, Yukie joins in, a makeshift goalie or striker to match their needs.

It goes like this for an entire season, until winter bleeds back into spring with a slow, slow thaw. They flee to Amagi’s room or the corner of her grandfather’s shop when the sun sets early and the cold seeps into their bones, and watch old clips of matches online, or read, or make an attempt in vain to get some actual work done before the cycle starts again.

The retreat comes later and later each day as one year gives way to another; the dying gasps of winter bring results.

Yukie holds her breath all throughout tryouts at the end of spring. It’s a simple test, a penalty kick and then a 15 minute exhibition match, and in the two hours it takes to get through it all, her eyes never leave the determined faces of her— _her friends_.

The hopefuls line up all in a row, and one by one are asked to step forward, a presentation to the crowd with bated breath. Their names are called, and the somber expressions on both of their faces (not unknown, as the same expressions were etched into their features the first day they stepped into the shop).

In the next instant, the air is almost knocked from her lungs; there is cheering in her ears and arms around her from both sides in a crushing bear hug.

Yukie smiles back and laughs with abandon.

They both become defenders, and Mahoro’s pout only stays until they are handed their jerseys.

Afternoons follow a different pace as school begins anew, and while sixth year demands more of her attention, homework is cast aside in a heap on the grass as she watches practice from the sidelines. Defender or not, Mahoro throws himself headlong into the team, and it serves him well. Amagi is never far behind, and she’d call them formidable, even as newcomers.

Sidelong glances from the other players do not escape her notice. They are interlopers where others have played together for years, and they’re _good_.

(Once, #6 says something she cannot hear, but _feels_ : the way Amagi’s head turns and mouth hangs open; the way Mahoro’s posture grows stiff and his hand clenches into fists at his sides. He looks as if he’d throw a punch, but Amagi swallows hard and turns his attention to Mahoro instead. A hand on his shoulder doesn’t ease all tension, but the coach’s whistle brings them back in the moment.

“What was that about?” Yukie asks when she hands them their water bottles.

“...Nothing.” Mahoro’s shrug is not very convincing, and she and Amagi exchange a look when he turns his back. If the other boy knows, he chooses to say nothing.

Amagi and Mahoro still remain in the class down the hall. It eats at her, just a little, the next day.)

There is little time to celebrate their triumph. Sixth year wastes no time in getting busy, fast, and it slowly gets harder to leave the mounting pile of homework in the grass at her side. _Everyday_ at the side of the field becomes _every other day_ , but they still have the weekend, even as it shrinks to Sunday when Amagi and Mahoro spend most of Saturday at practice.

One day, there is a somber cloud hanging over them. Mahoro, usually bursting with energy and the first one there, leans against a post with as severe an expression as Yukie’s ever seen. Amagi gently passes the ball towards him, and the responses are half-hearted until it clears him entirely, rolling between posts without so much as a reaction.

“Mahoro…?” Yukie peers down at him from her usual perch, a grimace on her lips. Amagi dutifully retrieves the ball, and when he pauses at the other boy’s side, he offers it without hesitation.

(It’s what she likes about Amagi: though his expression may cloud itself with doubt, he’s steadfast. Soccer cannot cure everything, perhaps, but it’s a start.)

He looks like he knows something, at least, like this is a response to a conversation she was not present for, and Yukie’s perch feels a little further away than before.

She lands on her feet this time, and looks Mahoro dead in the eye.

“If you’re gonna stand around and mope, at least tell us why!”

He looks guilty, and holds her stare for a few moments before gazing down at his shoes and mumbling something softly.

“C’mon, Mahoro…” Amagi chides gently, but there’s a firmness to his actions when he all but thrusts the soccer ball into the other boy’s hands.

He winces. He gives Amagi a sidelong look, and then gently lets the ball roll down to the grass before nudging it towards her with his foot. Not quite a pass, but a start. “Mom and I might be moving soon.”

“Moving? Wha— _when?!_ ”

“ _Soon_ ,” repeated again, as if that is anywhere near an acceptable answer. The ball rolls by Yukie’s feet, and once again Amagi chases after it when it rolls outside their circle.

“You said you’d still get to finish out the year, though, right?” he interjects after returning, a glance between her and Mahoro before his kick, firmer than the first pass, towards Yukie again. She’s ready this time, but sits on her pass for a moment to roll words around in her head.

“Maybe. Dunno.” Mahoro speaks as though it’s an admission of guilt, not something out of his control. “Mom wants to be closer to family, or something. She knows someone in a school up there, too…”

“Gen’ei, right?” It’s Amagi’s turn to pass again when Yukie finally kicks it back. Mahoro nods and receives his pass as before, with very little energy in the motion.

The name is not unfamiliar, but she knows very little, and Yukie’s brow furrows as she struggles to recall something, anything to place in a context. She knows schools less by their achievements and more by what they’ve left in ink and paper; they are moves lining rows of books on the wall, not walls in place longer than she’s been alive.

“They have a good soccer team...?” Amagi offers, as if it’s any consolation.

“Maybe. I guess.”

Mahoro doesn’t return the pass this time, and the ball crawls to a stop somewhere behind him. He sinks to the grass, then, expression more sour than before, and the silence expands far past the point of salvaging the conversation. Amagi sinks down to the ground in turn.

Yukie can read between the lines, to an echo of a conversation already had at the back of the classroom where she cannot see. She stands and stares at the both of them, a tight feeling in her chest.

Time seems to come to a crawl, silent minutes becoming hours, before Amagi stands and dusts himself off, striding purposefully towards their abandoned ball.

“How far!”

“...?” Mahoro finally lifts his gaze up from the grass and tosses a look over his shoulder. “What?”

“How far away? You jus’ said you were moving, but how far? One hour? Two hours?”

“I… don’t know?”

“I’ll ask Dad to look it up when I get home. If we get up really early we can make it before the first bell! ...Bluhhhh. It won’t be _fun_ , though.”

“What are you _talking_ about?” Mahoro seems lost, but as Amagi strolls back around to the center of their ring, Yukie sees a flicker of something burning in his gaze.

“Going to school every morning! D’you think I could sleep on the train? You’re gonna have to nudge me awake so I won’t miss the stops—”

“Weren’t you aiming for Raimon?”

Mahoro bolts up, then, but it’s to catch the ball his way, stopping it with his chest.

Amagi’s lips purse while he thinks, but then twist to a grin. “Gen’ei would be kinda cool, though. It can’t be _that_ hard to get in. They were in the Football Frontier semi-finals last year, right? They seem kinda tough.

 

...And I don’t wanna play soccer if we can’t play together, you know?”

 

It’s slow, but it’s there. A trembling lip blooming into a smile. Mahoro rubs at his eyes quickly, and kicks the ball towards Yukie.

(There is a small part of her that wants to be mad at the both of them. But they’re both grinning wide again, and their smiles have always been infectious.)

“You’re gonna come too, right, Yukie?”

“Yeah, we need you, coach!”

“Of course! Someone has to keep you on track.” she agrees in turn, and with the ball in her possession, she bends down to pick it up. “You both have your first game at the end of the month, right? This isn’t the time to slack off!”

“And you’ll be at that, too, right?” Mahoro asks hopefully, as Amagi sticks his tongue out in response.

“I will be there.”

She means it wholeheartedly, and that night she circles the Saturday on the desk calendar her grandfather still keeps. He flits around the shelves once they have closed shop for the night, looks at their meager catalogue for Gen’ei Academy.

Much like Sengoku Igajima, or Zeus, or Manyuuji, they keep their training close to their breast and oppose having things on record.

“But it’s a good school, _yes_ , good place. Kinda small, and they keep to themselves, but you’d get right on with the lot, I think. Knew some of those gentlemen in the administration when they were in diapers, but, _my_ , that seems like a lifetime ago...”

“And they still won’t let you record any of their secrets?” (It’s been years since anyone’s let him bring pen and paper to formally transcribe techniques, but he’s mentioned doing it before several times over in his youth. The idea itself seems delightfully novel, her grandfather without a trace of gray, watching game after game with a notepad on his lap.)

“Well, they _didn’t_ , back in the day. Heard down the grapevine some younger blood is coming into the school. Maybe they won’t be so stiff-lipped!”

“I can collect them while I’m there.” She speaks without thinking, but before she knows it her grandfather is nodding his head, the corners of his eyes crinkling behind his glasses as he smiles.

“That would be wonderful, little Yukie. Your handwriting is a great deal prettier than mine!"

 

(Truth be told, she’d said yes without thinking much of it.

But the idea keeps her up that night, as do the smiles of both her friends, beaming back at her when she closes her eyes.)

 

Yukie forgoes sleep to do what she does best: make plans.

She spends the next week playing catch up, and then pushes forward to work ahead. All the discipline she put into working her friends into starting players she pushes towards schoolwork with a renewed vigor. Her grandfather notices, of course, and instead of letting her help on the floor he instead begins ushering her upstairs to study.

Always gently, of course, with a twinkle in his eyes.

Amagi and Mahoro keep busy in turn, and even when she has to skip some days of watching practice, they still call the house phone in the stairway hall and tell her about the day.

The last Thursday of the month, and their call is a little later than usual. Yukie is in the middle of a math worksheet with a long stream of numbers on her calculator that make very little sense as the answer. Grandfather is downstairs on the shop floor, and it has not been a busy night, and so she lets it ring for a moment while she checks her steps with a harried expression, vowing to call them back later. Perhaps he’ll answer, as he does sometimes, and calls her downstairs (as if the house is not cavernous enough to hear it).

 

 

In the dead air between rings, there is nothing,

 

then a _crash_ ,

 

so loud her heart stops and the world freezes.

  


 

She is silent, then she bolts downstairs and almost trips all the way down in her slippers.

The afternoon sun casts a menacing light on the scene at the end of the stairs.

(Overturned books and a broken step stool, her grandfather underneath, and ringing in her ears.)

  


 

The rest of the evening is a blur, as is the rest of the week. She spends the night curled on an uncomfortable hospital couch cushion, and when she wakes up it is too early in the morning for the sun but her mother is there, wrapping a coat around her in lieu of a blanket.

With bleary eyes she doesn’t recognize her for several moments.

Grandfather stays in the hospital for almost five days. It is a miracle his hip is not displaced, but parts of his leg are fractured. He seems older as Yukie sits by his bedside for the better part of four.

Her mother does not make her go to school, quietly calling her school in the hallway.

Yukie misses the first game of the season.

It is not till Monday morning when she sees them again, shuffling up the steps to the school building when she hears Amagi over the crowd, calling her name. Mahoro trails behind him slowly. Neither look particularly happy.

“We came by the shop a couple of times, but…” The sentence dies as quickly as it started, Amagi looking down at his feet.

“A lady answered last time we called and said you couldn’t talk. Dad heard about your grandpa falling. He okay?”

Yukie doesn’t know how to respond, and so she only nods and excuses herself to class before the first bell rings.

Tuesday morning, her grandfather is cleared to come home, and her mother does not disappear with a hug and an empty promise.

The air feels different, now, and Yukie almost longs to leave—but does not. She keeps her eyes on her grandfather and starts catching up on the work she missed sitting across from him at the table.

(That afternoon, Amagi and Mahoro come by with a card from Amagi’s dad, and they sit in their corner of the closed shop. Yukie remembers to ask about the game, finally, but the result is matching frustrated expressions and murmuring “we lost.”

She does not notice at first, but the calls to the house phone became less and less frequent.)

Her mother stays for Grandfather’s recovery, and Yukie feels five years younger in her presence. They talk little, and what they have to say is stilted.

One evening, she asks about middle school over the dinner table. Yukie is silent for a long moment before she shrugs half-heartedly.

“I… wanted to go to Gen’ei Academy.”

“Mm. That’s far.”

“I know.”

“Why there?”

“I don’t know.”

Her mother lets it rest for all of two days, and then the next morning over breakfast she breaks silence again.

“It’s a tough school,” she says without preamble. “It isn’t very close, but… I think it will be good for you. To get you out of your little circle of the world.”

“...I suppose.”

Her grandfather will be off his feet for weeks yet, and progress to put him on the mend has been slow. But his eyes still twinkle and when he looks up, he seems aghast at her hesitation. “It would! Where is the excitement from before, little Yukie?

You’ve got to get over there for the both of us, remember?”

Despite herself, she smiles.

She comes home immediately nearly every afternoon, and there is a renewed vigor to her studying. Her grandfather mends, slowly but surely. The energy returns to the both of them.

She catches sight of Mahoro with a fist-shaped bruise on his cheek one morning, before he slips into his classroom. She bolts across the hall and grabs onto his shirt.

“What _happened?!_ ”

“Nothing. Accident at practice,” he murmurs, and shrugs out of her grip and shuffles inside the room. She looks to the side, expecting Amagi to be there, and her gaze only meets dead air.

Grandfather starts taking baby steps again. A couple of longtime customers stop by with a beautiful hand-carved cane for him.

Amagi stops by the first afternoon the shop is back open for business. He mulls around sheepishly and Yukie only knows he’s there when he pulls one book out and two more fall with it.

“Amagi! How’s practice?”

“Oh, um. It’s fine. You… haven’t seen Mahoro around, have you?”

A frown. “No. You’re in the same class. Don’t _you_ know?”

He takes the books from the ground in a hurry and does his best to shove them back in place. “N-Never mind, I was just wondering. See you tomorrow!”

He pales when he passes by a small crowd of students, and keeps his head down as he runs outside.

(And a week later he’s back again. He does not make eye contact with her, and hovers at the door when he sees another group of classmates—teammates, too, she remembers—standing at the front of the shop. They wave and call him over. He looks stunned, and then flees once more.)

Slowly but surely, her grandfather makes a full recovery. Her mother leaves again, well wishes for her entrance exams above all.

Part of Yukie can’t help but feel as though there’s a tinge of relief, not having to make good on the promise of schools up north.

Right before summer vacation, something compels her feet to visit the same place they spent countless afternoons, and she sees someone huddled in the corner, head buried in their knees.

 

 

 

 

“...Amagi?”

  
He looks up with red-rimmed eyes, and can only mumble _he’s gone_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two years of silence.

Yukie sits stiffly, hands folded in her lap. Her new uniform shirt still feels starchy, itching around the collar as she swallows the urge to adjust it.

But there is something more pressing.

Clear as day, still with the same shock of bright hair: Mahoro is two rows ahead of her seat, and the sound of her new principal’s voice slowly fades to background noise.

She spends the opening ceremony staring at the back of his head until they are dismissed, and he fades into the rest of the crowd of first years.

And that would have been it, so she assumed, had she not walked into her homeroom to see him sitting at the back of class, gaze distant and out the window and looking as dour as she’d ever seen him.

There is an urge, of course, to run forward, to grab his shoulders and demand some sort of explanation. Months of silence, of cautious calls that never have a voice at the other end, finally culminating in a confrontation and, most importantly, answers.

Before she can say a word, others enter, and Mahoro startles and looks up.

For a moment, they lock eyes.

There is surprise, and then pain etched into his grimace, but before Yukie can think to say a word, the teacher enters, and her first day of middle school begins in earnest.

Class 1-B gives off a different air than the rest of her classrooms. Her previous classmates had treated her with a certain sort of distant disdain. Those that adored soccer like she did were discouraged when she was tight-lipped on family trade secret; those that did not saw the quiet girl who lived in a creaky old building and was never quite in step with the rest of their interests. She stood on the periphery of class activities, pleasant but never quite present, occasionally intersecting with the other classes in her grade enough to wish she’d been with Amagi and Mahoro for the rest of the day.

_Be careful what you wish for_ , she supposes. The distance between their seats feels far longer than the distance down the hall.

But there is an upside. Gen’ei is a smaller school but focused, with ancient walls she cannot help but feel right at home in. She feels as though when she walks the halls, she is treading a well-worn path, hundreds of footsteps sprawled out before her own.

And while athletics are not their strongest suit, they take great pride in their soccer team, and by the second day, there are already posters for tryouts in the entryway, and hopeful first years pondering over their potential place in it all.

She hangs back, observing. And the awkwardness of the initial first day feels as though it fades away. It reminds her: this is why she is here.

Surprisingly enough, there is far less interest in becoming a manager than a player, and she is the only one in her class that arrives Friday afternoon to sit in to the initial meeting. While the coach is present—a tall, spindly man named Yatsuhaka who speaks softly and whose vision seems permanently obscured by waves of dark hair—it’s mostly run by the only other manager, who watches the lot of them with a penetrating gaze and crossed arms.

Again, she sees Mahoro ahead of her, with the other hopeful first year players at the front. She keeps her head down and pulls a notebook from her bag. Pen in hand, it’s steadying. It reminds her of the reason she’d come.

Yukie begins to take notes.

The first meeting is all rules and regulations, of which there are a lot, and the deeper they go, the more the hopeful players begin to whisper under their breath. Coach Yatsuhaka delivers them with a solemn, low voice, although it cracks at least once, enough for her to take notice and look up from her notebook. He stumbles over _Fifth Sector_ and his lips are drawn thin, and the senior manager Kureno silences the lot of them with a pointed clearing of her throat.

It isn’t as though they’re caught unawares. It feels as though it happened overnight, but Yukie’s grandfather had been murmuring about them for the weeks leading up to her first day of middle school.

A man had come in to visit them, well-dressed in white with a gentle smile. He walked up directly to her grandfather, respectful, earnest, and spoke appreciatively of their archives. How nice it was to see such artifacts preserved. How many hours his younger self would have spent here, away from the rest of the world, immersed in soccer’s legacy.

He had tried to buy one of their older manuals, one not for sale. He had refused, never once budging even after repeated offers.

After several minutes of back and forth, the man in white acquiesced, and left with a polite apology.

He never once raised his voice or acted rudely, but she couldn’t help but feel something ominous about his presence all the same.

There’s a certain sort of restless energy to the room at the end of the meeting. She is one of the last ones left sitting in the back, staring at rules and regulations in her own neat handwriting with a certain sort of numbness.

“Were you seriously taking _notes?_ ”

She startles, and looks up to see Kureno, who takes the notebook from her lap before she can respond, nose wrinkled.

“You were. Very thorough, too. Interesting.” The same scrutiny turns towards Yukie, and her shoulders stiffen involuntarily. “You. Name?”

“K… Kousaka Yukie.”

“First year, hmm? Cute. You’re in. No one else has any initiative.”

(There _is_ no one else, but she keeps her mouth shut.)

She’d expected the process to be a little more involved, perhaps with some sort of test, silly as it would have been. But, just as suddenly as she’d been approached, she is a manager.

The first week of school is for tryouts, which means Yukie shadows Kureno with towels and water bottles, and when her hands are free, her notebook and pen. She came here to record as much of her time at Gen’ei as possible, from moves to practice and training habits, and she does so dutifully.

She watches, she records, and observes Mahoro from a distance through it all. He makes it to the team without any trouble, of course. He works hard, and she knows from firsthand experience he is a strong player. Not strong enough to make the starting lineup, of course, but everyone must start at the bottom.

The players of Gen’ei are an interesting bunch, some from the city, others from further out in the country. Many of them are here because their parents and grandparents went here, too. But there is not really an air of superiority, not really. While they seem stiff in the small conference room, on the field they seem to come alive and unwind.

She sees shades of that in Mahoro, slowly, as they edge closer and closer to the first game of the season.

Limited to brief, polite exchanges and an occasional nod, they have yet to properly talk, even as they work in the same circles. Every time feels not quite right; every way she brainstorms to begin a conversation seems to die on her tongue.

So she observes, as she always does, looking for an opening.

All the while, she knows Kureno is watching. She allows her note-taking, even dictates when she should write something down, in the clipped, sharp manner of hers. Yukie learns that’s simply the way she is, and while it’s abrasive at first, it becomes comforting, in a way.

It is honest, and open, and fearless.

She notices in turn that Mahoro takes to falling in-step with Gen’ei’s captain. Kadotsuka Temina is fiery but does the team morale well, and watches his juniors just as carefully as he does his own classmates. His brand of encouragement is a bit overzealous, but Yukie can see, at times, the corners of Mahoro’s lips twitching, almost threatening to turn into a smile.

Kureno and Kadotsuka are old friends, it seems. Or at least, have grown into a comfortable sort of dynamic from working together so long. She yells at him from the sides when he slips up, he yells back from across the field.

(And once or twice, Yukie and Mahoro stand at their sides and share a look of mutual embarrassment for the halt in practice.)

For a time, she almost forgets the knots in her stomach from the day the man in the white suit came.

And then the match order comes.

Coach Yatsuhaka delivers it with the same solemn voice as always, but it feels different, somehow. Quiet but grave: Gen’ei and Kaiou, 0-1.

There’s stunned silence, and then the room turns to chaos. Yatsuhaka lets it. Seated beside her, Yukie notices Kureno’s fists curled so tightly at her sides that her knuckles turn white.

Amongst all the chaos, a chair is knocked back as one player stands, speaking above the rest:

 

“That’s not soccer!”

 

Mahoro hands slam against the table for emphasis, and for a moment, he looks as how Yukie remembers him in her mind’s eye. Confident, with a strong sense of justice.

“They want us to purposefully _lose_ the first match of the season? Even if it won’t mess with our standing for the football frontier, that—that’s _insane_. That can’t be a direct order!”

“...It is. I’m sorry.”

“Well, can’t you challenge it? Why does it matter if it’s only a friendly? We _can’t—_ ”

“ _Oi, Mahoro!_ Quit yapping, will ya?”

Another voice cuts through his anger, and heads turn in the room to see Kadotsuka stand, his voice booming, eclipsing his junior’s.

“ _Captain—_ ”

“Pretty mouthy today, huh? Sit _down_ , kid.”

Yukie can see the frustration etched into Mahoro’s face for the rest of practice.

 

 

 

Saturday is sunny, despite the bleak atmosphere over the team. It is a home game, too, an added insult to injury.

Mahoro sits on the opposite side of the bench as her and Kureno, armed crossed, glowering out at the field.

She takes notes.

She records the way Kadotsuka still gives Kaiou’s defenders a run for their money, even as he seems to slip up at the last second. How every move is purposeful, how every mistake is planned.

Of how the audience doesn’t even seem to notice. They cheer when the defense line folds and Kaiou scores a goal, and do not notice the way the defenders look embarrassed at their feigned incompetence.

At half time, in the midst of passing out towels and water bottles, she notices that Mahoro and the third years have disappeared.

Kureno is clearly displeased by their absence, but finds a distraction in a couple of the second years considering going over to Kaiou’s bench and “setting the record straight,” whatever that would ultimately end up entailing.

While she snaps at them, Yukie carefully creeps away.

She hears voices outside the locker room, loud enough to carry.

  
  


“—You _know_ this isn’t right, captain—”

“—And _you_ don’t know when to stop stickin’ your nose in things you don’t _understand—_ ”

“—Your shoot is powerful enough to score against them—”

“—Of course it is! S’not the point, first year!—”

 

“—Then what is the point?! Why would—” 

“—Who the hell knows, Mahoro? S’not like they’re gonna _hand_ us a reason. But the last thing I’m gonna be responsible for in my last year is watchin’ this team fold like a deck o’ cards! My big bro spent all three years here, sweating his heart out to put the team on the map. All of us hate it, yeah, but d’you wanna get _kicked off_ instead?!”

  
  
  
  


(If Mahoro replies, it’s too soft to make out.

The fire in Mahoro’s eyes dims considerably after that day.)

 

 

 

There are better matches, fairer matches, as the year goes on. The ones without score orders are the best, and things seem almost normal as the team shifts and adjusts to Fifth Sector’s demands. Kureno keeps running a tight ship, and Yukie keeps taking notes, and while Kadotsuka keeps mentoring Mahoro, nothing feels quite the same as it did before.

He makes it off the bench in time, like she knew he would.

Their exchanges are still polite, but brief and frigid. On the off chance they meet eyes, Mahoro seems to hesitantly shrink away like he’s guilty of something.

The Football Frontier’s opening ceremony is grander than ever before, a fitting affair for its grand renaming: the Holy Road.

They get their first match against Tengawara without any sort of orders, and win in a struggle that is tied until the last second. Morale is higher than it’s been all season, even as Yukie notices Coach Yatsuhaka disappearing more and more frequently, coming back from meetings looking progressively more harried.

Kureno seems to pick up the slack in his absence, keeping everyone on their training menus, never once relenting.

By now, Yukie’s notes of their moves have filled page after page, and she knows soon she’ll need another. Somehow, she isn’t yet satisfied.

And then: Gen’ei versus Zeus. 0-3. A sweeping, embarrassing loss.

Yatsuhaka writes it on a whiteboard in the conference room, and exits, as though he is too ashamed to address his team directly.

There is no protest this time, only resignation. Kureno pushes them to their limits, all the same.

At the end of practice, Yukie makes a detour back to the conference room after realizing she left her bag there. As she slips out, she hears angry voices just around the corner, out of view.

  
  


“You. When did you become so spineless? It’s an embarrassment.”

“You don’t _get_ _it_ , do ya, Kureno?”

“I do! I know you’re a coward. Tail between your legs, and all that—”

“— _Hey!!_ —”

“—You always kind of were. But imagine! One time, I had faith in you—”

“—They were gonna shut the whole team down if we didn’t!—”

“I want to be the best. All of you do, too.”

“I… I am! I can run circles around any team! And when I _get outta here_ … when I _get out_ , I’ll have the chance to prove it. And maybe next year’s captain will get the chance to prove it earlier. But I gotta make sure I leave a place where they _can_.”

 

 

 

(Kureno and Kadotsuka stop yelling at each other from across the field after that day.)

 

 

 

Zeus goes on to win the Holy Road after their victory. The team watches the match and do not cheer as the final whistle blows.

The year is a blur after that.

A man starts coming around after practice, silently watching the team run through drills with cold eyes. Coach Yatsuhaka does not start conversations with him, nor does he ask him to leave. The team whispers, of course, but all they can do is run despite the hawklike gaze on them.

At the end of the year, Kureno empties her stuff from a locker in the conference room and drops it, quite literally, in Yukie’s lap.

“You. You’ll get more use of it than I will. Do something with it. I don’t have time for soccer practice any more. I have to study for next year.”

It’s all old training notes and tactics, handwritten, almost putting Yukie’s own penmanship to shame.

The end of the year preoccupies her with schoolwork, however, and end of term tests, and she does not get a chance to comb through them until the first night of break.

She pauses for a long time on one page, near the end, specifically dogeared for reference. Notes on a vague idea, a shot that is impossible to block.

(Yukie creeps down the stairs that night with bated breath, and gets to work on her search for one such shot.)

  
  
  
  


 

The first meeting of her second year, the silent man stands in the front of the conference room, hands folded neatly behind his back. His voice is low but somehow seems to fill the space with ease, staring down at current team members and hopefuls alike.

“Good afternoon.”

“Where’s Coach Yatsuhaka?” Someone asks from behind.

“Former Coach Yatsuhaka has… _retired_ from his career. Starting today, I will be taking over his position as your instructor.

 

Housuiin Tadanori, _at your service_.”

He smiles. The room seems to grow colder.

“Now. Before we begin our briefing… Mahoro Tadashi?”

All heads turn. While Mahoro does not respond, Yukie can see a brief flash of confusion dance across his eyes as he hesitantly stands.

“On recommendation of your former captain, and with the blessing of our own Holy Emperor, I have elected you as captain following Kadotsuka’s graduation. It is truly an honor. Do not _disappoint_.”

“...Yes, sir. Thank you.”

 

 

The rest of the week, there are whispers. Housuiin runs tryouts and then practice, efficient but cold. He never once raises his voice, but he does not have to: the ice in every word is more a threat than a suggestion. Yukie stays on her side of the bench.

No one else is interested in joining the team on as a manager, but she does the work without complaint. It keeps her mind occupied and makes practice go by faster.

(Mahoro awkwardly adjusts the captain’s band on his arm when he thinks no one else is looking.)

The road to summer break is a long, grueling crawl.

Housuiin mentions every so often that a select few students will be chosen to attend a training camp sponsored by Fifth Sector over the break. It seems less a prestige honor and something more ominous, but any whispers are stamped out with a well-placed glare from the coach.

By design, Mahoro Tadashi, fledgling captain, will have to attend.

( _Do something with it_ , Kureno’s voice echoes in her mind.)

Yukie finally catches a break.

Occult Junior High’s moves are all public knowledge nowadays. There was something of a small scandal ten years ago, and ever since, the school’s reputation has never been very good. They gave up on soccer some time ago, but their legacy remains. Late one night, in a beginner’s encyclopedia, there’s an explanation for the old move Phantom Shoot.

When Yukie goes to make notes, she finds her pages full, necessitating another sneaky trip up the stairs and back to her desk. She has a feeling her grandfather knows she’s working far past her bedtime, but if he has objections, he’s kept them to himself.

Still, she keeps as quiet as she can while rummaging through her things for a fresh notebook.

Tucked in the back, with old schoolwork, she finds something else.

Some pages are partially torn and the marker on the cover is faded, but it is in tact. Yukie’s small, neat print. Amagi’s sprawling signature. Mahoro’s unsteady handwriting. Something slips out from between the pages, when she opens the cover, and when she bends down to pick it up, she recognizes it on sight.

Two years ago, on Amagi’s birthday, his dad had taken a photograph of the three of them. Their smiles beam up at her, somehow brighter, even with age.

The silence of the night feels deafening as she stares down at the old training manual in her hands, before curling it and the picture tightly to her chest.

_Do something with it_.

Kousaka Yukie finds fresh sheets of paper, tucks the picture back in safely, and presses on.

  
  


 

The day before summer break, she gets to morning practice early. Mahoro is warming up alone, and she crosses the field with purpose.

“Mahoro.”

It takes a moment before he finally turns to face her from stretching his legs.

“...Yukie. Good morning.”

“Do you know how long the training camp will last, yet?”

“...No, I do not.”

Yukie cannot help but shake the bad feeling she gets about the very idea, but she shrugs it off with her backpack.

“Listen. I… made you something. You still want to make goals, right? I think every captain needs a signature move, and so…”

She handles the old training manual gingerly and extends it towards Mahoro, filled with purpose.

For the first time in a year, Yukie watches a myriad of emotions dance across Mahoro’s face. His neutral expression and shoulders fall, and he looks at her offering with a certain sort of trepidation.

“Being a captain is a lot different from being a normal player. They’ll probably make you go through the basics, again. But you’ll be fine. This regimen helped last time, right?”

Yukie offers a small smile with it.

“And… I collected some notes. There’s an old move, I think… you could do something with it. Go on, take it.”

Mahoro’s hands are trembling when he does.

The silence between them rests so long that it settles, and the smile slowly starts to wane.

It is only when Yukie turns to leave that he speaks again.

“...Thank you.”

 

 

 

(And, so softly she fears she dreamed it, “I’m sorry.”)

  
  
  
  
  


The first day back at school after break, and Yukie is cleaning out clutter in her bag in the conference room when she notices the trash is already full first thing in the morning. She almost pays it no mind until she is staring down at her own handwriting.

No page is salvageable. Every single entry, drawn and quartered.

The old photograph rests at the top of it all, the only thing untouched.

Yukie cradles it close to her chest and swallows the urge to leave.

 

 

 

Mahoro is on the field when she finally enters the stadium. The fire in his eyes is gone.

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

(He does not look at her.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> finally, a finale.

For three long years, Yukie watches.

(Watches as Phantom Shoot becomes Maboroshi Shot, as he secures himself a permanent place on the midfield instead of the defense line.

Watches as Gen’ei Gakuen comes in third overall at her second Holy Road, besting Fifth Sector’s shining crown jewel Ze— _Seidouzan_ , as the school is renamed under their thumb.

Watches as Mahoro makes three goals in a row and disappears as the stadium erupts into thunderous applause.)

Gaze unfettered, hands steady, lips drawn thin.

(Holding steady as Gen’ei gets a surge of students the old school is wholly unprepared to deal with, thanks to the team’s victories. Hallowed halls now feel cramped, more alive than she’s ever seen it.

Holding fast as tryouts are as large as they’ve ever had, and Housuiin’s eye is discerning and cruel as it’s ever been: at least thirty students with hopeful eyes enter the field. Only five make the cut.

Holding true as another boy begins to shadow Housuiin. He is her age, tall and imposing and with a smirk that sends shivers down her spine. It does not take a genius to figure out who sent him; Hakono is not the first “new student” to arrive unannounced.)

Day in, day out, only pausing to fulfill her obligations as manager before she’s sitting again, notebook open in front of her. If the world were to swallow itself whole, her writing would not waver.

(It has, or one would believe it, looking at Mahoro’s stoic face from across the pitch. They do their best to stay out of each other’s way.

Yukie watches him, too, despite herself. Feelings fluctuate between resentment and sadness when she does.

The photograph she’d salvaged is still tucked into her wallet, protected from age by a clear insert on the side. Three children smile up at her while she roots through her backpack, or every time she goes to put something away.

Every day it feels harder to face those smiles.)

She has four notebooks, writing cover to cover, to show for her steady gaze and three years of silent suffering.

Her grandfather could not be any more proud, she thinks. On occasion he checks in when Yukie is leafing through her notes during slow business days after school. He walks a little slower on good days, stubbornly without his cane, and bad ones he’s leaning onto it when he thinks she’s not looking. But he never fails to sound like a kid when he asks about her project.

“As I said, your handwriting is far better than mine!” he observes, nodding proudly. “We’ll have to bind all these together one day!”

“I think… I’d prefer to type them all out, first. The ink will fade one day...”

“Bah, that gives it character, little Yukie! You know that.”

Her grandfather scoffs, as he always does when these things are concerned, but his expression softens into something thoughtful. “I used to know a man quite adept at book binding, I did. Hoho, maybe you can get that old friend of yours to transcribe it! What was his name… Amano… Araki—”

“...Amagi?”

“That’s the one!”

Yukie’s face falls as she closes her notebook and clears her throat. Years ago, after Mahoro had left, he’d occasionally call the shop or wave to her as they passed by the halls.

She doesn’t remember when or why their communications had slowly trickled to silence, only that it did.

She has seen him once or twice since then. Only from a distance, from a seat in a stadium with his team.

“Ah, well. Your hard work deserves to be put out for the world to read, if I have your permission. I’m proud of you, little Yukie. This glorious little world of soccer is brighter for having you to jot it all down!"

That is the magic of her grandfather. Despite her eyes not lifting to meet his, she can feel the twinkle in them. Despite herself, Yukie still smiles, just a little.

She almost believes him.

  
  
  
  


Yukie finds herself in the same position Kureno was her first year, albeit with a bit more on her plate. Instead of one hopeful, there are four, and they are every bit as eager to please as the first years that find themselves within the fold. Housuiin clears his throat and scoffs at the lot of them (as he is prone to do, she’s observed, with anything he deems not worth his time) and they quiet their chattering, but he lets them on when Yukie speaks up and vows to keep them in line.

Housuiin has never liked her much, she can tell, but she does the work he considers beneath him, and so they have found themselves in a specific silent agreement to stay out of each other’s way.

The new girls are respectful of their senior, of course, but she soon finds the task somewhat thankless. They’re a group of close-knit friends, with no room for another in their fold. They’re shockingly eager to jump right in, and what used to take Yukie what felt like hours is done in minutes. They flit between players during breaks, and speak to them with an ease she has not felt in a long, long time.

At the beginning of the season, the team seems invigorated, and they make it to the playoffs with ease.

Mahoro scores a hat trick in nearly every game with Maboroshi Shot. Yukie would be angrier if she didn’t see the exhaustion slowly sink in to his every action.

And every time Mahoro calls forth his keshin to barrel through the opposing team, the crowd goes _wild_. They love the spectacle, and perhaps, if she were a kid again, peering down at the stadium with fresh eyes, she’d be cheering with them. Fifth Sector does a great job of putting on a show.

Every time he calls out his Avatar, she cannot help but feel as though they look like parasite and prey.

The heavy lifting is practically done for her, now, with all that’s left to do is watch.

Game after game of crestfallen observation, and that’s starting to become hard to do.

And then at the end of their match in Snowland Stadium, she mumbles an excuse about feeling unwell and having to leave, and melds into the crowd of spectators leaving the match. If the other managers heard a word she said, they do not acknowledge her.

  


“—So Gen’ei will be our next opponents—”

“—I’m not sure how to feel about that—”

“—Hmmph. Their captain’s not _that_ good—just has a good kick and a good shoot. I bet if we get the ball away from him—”

The world only comes to focus again when she hears loud chatter congregated at one of the exits. There’s a team there, cozy in their tracksuits, spirited discussion somehow drowning out the rest of the crowd. Voices overlap and fight with one another, but without a hint of maliciousness. It’s loud, but warm and far from unpleasant.

 

“—They’re sneaky, y’know—”

“—It’s makin’ my head spin just thinking about it—”

“—It’s _hopeless_ … We came here to study them, but now we’re even more confused—”

 

It takes until they leave for Yukie to realize she’s staring at Raimon Junior High’s soccer team. The dark horse of the tournament, the team everyone can’t stop talking about. The team everyone wants to thoroughly _crush_.

Their next opponent.

It’s dark when she steps outside, the snowy path down the steps backlit by the lights inside. She surveys the team and it only takes a moment for her gaze to rest on who she’s looking for.

 

“Um, excuse me,” she says, without thinking, and then louder when their retreating conversation does not cease. “ _Excuse me_.”

Several heads turn to stare up at her. Only one meets her eyes with recognition.

“Your name… wouldn’t happen to be Amagi Daichi, would it?”

(He’s gotten a lot taller since they last spoke.)

“ _Y-Yukie...?!_ ”

 

To say his mouth hangs wide open is an understatement. There’s a lot that dances across his face, the full extent of which she can’t see with the dim surroundings. But there’s familiarity in the pitch of his voice, and for a split-second she sees an old friend and not the enemy.

She smiles again, despite herself, because for the first time she’s found something familiar.

When she starts, she cannot stop. It’s been three years of holding her tongue, and excitement begins to break the ice as she runs down the steps:

“It is you! I know we haven’t really spoken since elementary school, but how are you holding up?”

“Amagi, who is…?”

“ _Oooh_ , an old girlfriend?”

A few teammates linger around them and whisper loudly, but Amagi does not respond, to them or to her. The closer she steps, the more his face, for a second alight with joy, turns to something fearful.

“Did you… come to watch us? I’m a manager for Gen’ei, now—”

“I, umm…”

Her smile starts to crumble as his face falls. The magic of the moment is slowly fading, and the stares at her back feel more pronounced. And yet, there’s one final question at the tip of her tongue, one that she voices before she can stop herself:

“Did you… did you come to see Mahoro pl—”

She reaches out to touch his arm, and he recoils and turns away.

“I, uhh…! I think you’re mistaking me for s-someone else!”

And he’s bolted, like he did the last time he came to the shop.

One or two of his teammates remain, casting a look back at her before going after him, leaving her alone in the cold.

  
  
  
  


When Yukie gets in from school the next afternoon, she comes inside to her grandfather on the phone in the hall. He’s speaking passionately and when he spots her, he covers the phone to speak to her quickly.

“Welcome back, little Yukie! Would you be a dear and stand by? I may need you to pull something off the shelf!”

She nods, although not without a quirk of a brow as she listens in on the rest of the conversation.

“Noooow, as I was saying, that’s hogwash… yes, yes, I underst—I _understand_ the situation is _dire_ , young man, but you can’t… no-no-no, that’s _much_ too low. You can’t put a price on something this priceless! It could very well be the only recorded copy of this move left— _ehhh?_ How much was that again? ...Mmm, I see. Well, if it’s for an _emergency_ —”

Again, he moves the phone away long enough to mouth _Atlantis Wall_ to her, and she steps past to walk to the front and fetch the manual in question.

It’s a strange request, although not without reason: long since fallen out of fashion with an older school overseas, it is nonetheless recorded as quite a formidable move. She follows the spines of books until she lands on it, and then takes it with her behind the counter to set it aside.

(It is the only copy they have of it, too. It’s old enough that Yukie would have imagined her grandfather still saying no. But, well. Times have changed.)

“Who was that?” she asks when her grandfather finally hangs up.

“A gentleman named… ahh, I believe he said his name was Megane… Kazuto...? Well, either way. He’s holding it for a team he’s working with, and they’ll be by to pick it up tomorrow.”

“Did he mention what team?”

“He did not! But for a sum like that, I’d rightfully believe it’s an emergency!” He’s laughing under his breath as he pads off.

It’s a curious incident, but Yukie shrugs and writes the name given on note taped to the front.

The very next day, she comes home again to her grandfather’s voice above all at the front of the shop. This time, however, someone responds.

“ _Ehhh?_ Speak up, son! You’re looking for _soup?_ ”

“—A _shoot!_ I mean, a shoot, sir. You had one on hold for us? The one that can stop anything!”

Her backpack falls forgotten at the back door.

Impatient but determined, a voice Yukie would know anywhere.

“Ohhh. That old thing? Why didn’t you say something before? You’re in for that Megane lad, right? Now! Where did I go and put it…?”

(He put it upstairs after they’d closed for the night, because he was certain he’d forget it was on hold and put it back on the shelf the next day. Quietly, Yukie pads up the stairs and retrieves it from off his desk.)

She comes down to Amagi, arms crossed and looking away from her.

She sees in her mind the boy staring back at her from the entrance of the shop, too scared to step inside without encouragement from his friends.

“Ohoho, it’s around here somewhere, my boy—”

“—Was this what you were looking for?”

Amagi’s face and arms fall. He’s disarmed, but the door is open and like every time before, she expects him to bolt.

“Y—Yeah, that’s it. It’s for us.”

The urgency fades slowly fades away. Grandfather looks between the both of them.

“...Yukie. It’s really important that I get that manual. We… I… I want— _need_ to learn it! More than anything!”

He isn’t fleeing, and does not break her gaze.

He is the boy who trembled at the door and the boy with a soccer ball in hand, smiling at her.

“...Of course. I think… I think it suits you, Amagi.”

When Yukie crosses the room this time, he does not flinch, even as his hands are trembling slightly when she hands the manual off to him.

He holds it carefully, staring at the cover a long time in silence with a furrowed brow. The pages are beige and it smells musty when he finally opens it. Yukie does not miss how he unconsciously shuffles to where their corner used to be.

Grandfather only silently watches with his hands behind his back.

“Hrmm… this is… a lot more complicated than I thought.”

“I’m sure you’ll get it in time. Nothing is learned unless you try.”

After a few more moments, Yukie slowly trails behind him. He jumps when she puts a hand on his arm, but then looks down.

The spark he’d had before seems to have vanished, and he shuts the book, nose wrinkling at the dust it displaces.

“I… I don’t know about this.”

  


“ _Pathetic._ ”

  


A third voice cuts through their awkward silences, sharp and cold as a knife. The setting sun casts the shadow of the boy in the door across the floor.

“ _Mahoro_ ,” she and Amagi breathe in unison.

He takes one step inside, and then another, his gaze as frigid as they come.

“What did you say?” Amagi tries to sound accusatory, but his voice cracks at the end.

“I said, it’s _pathetic_. At this late hour… to think a weakling can suddenly pull off some daring feat to save his team from their inevitable defeat.”

“I-I’m not—!”

“It’s useless, trying to argue. You’re better off giving up now.”

Another step in.

Three years of watching, and Yukie has learned to read Mahoro well. His eyes stay dull with every word he talks, and his expression does not change, even as Amagi’s expression furrows and he swallows hard and tries desperately to string thoughts into words.

She sees him enough to notice the whites of his knuckles, how his fists are tucked angrily into his arms, so tight his nails will leave crescents on his palms. It’s how he used to get worked up, back when they were younger, back when he still smiled.

“Save yourself the humiliation.”

Loud footsteps cut off Amagi’s reply, and suddenly the room is filled with a bunch of students in Raimon’s uniform, familiar faces from the day at the stadium.

(Grandfather remarks—with _no_ effort to be subtle—about the kids scaring off the customers with their yelling.)

Mahoro is idle for a moment before backing off, turning sharply to leave as coldly as he came.

 

 

“ _Why?!_ ”

 

 

Amagi’s voice silences the room this time, instead of being drowned out.

“Why… did you stop talking to me? Why did you disappear? We… We used to be best friends! No matter what, remember?”

Mahoro hesitates at the door, and when Amagi moves forward, hand outstretched, the other boy’s shadow cuts across him.

“There has to be a reason for it, right?”  


 

 

“...I got tired of you getting in my way.”

 

 

 

(It’s quick, but his crossed arms fall and she sees his hands slip into the pockets of his tracksuit, fists white-knuckle tight.)

“This world does not have a place for cowards. I will crush Raimon in tomorrow’s match, and show you that much is true.”

Three long, long years spent observing, of keeping her head down and hand steady and sitting in silence, and Kousaka Yukie has had enough.

  


“ ** _Mahoro!_** ”

  


She’s pursuing him out the door without a second thought.

When she reaches his side, she does not hesitate to clasp his shoulder with an iron grip, to _make_ him face her directly.

“Is _that_ why, Mahoro? Is that really?! Answer me, Mahoro!

Is that also why you took the manual I gave you and tore it to shreds?

 _Was I in your way, too?!_ ”

 

 

She’s breathing heavily, a dull ache at her temple, glaring up at the boy who used to be her friend, so many years ago. He does not say a word for the longest time, but he is finally, _finally_ meeting her gaze and staring back.

(For the first time in years, he looks as though he may break. For a second, she wants to believe she saw a plea for help in his eyes.)

“Coach Housuiin wanted me to inform you that, effective today, you are relieved of your position as manager. For your health. He is concerned about your disappearance from last match—”

“— _Mahoro—_ ”

“—We have… more than enough help, for now. Your duties will be in capable hands—”

“—You can’t _do_ that—”

 

“Goodnight, Yukie.”

  
  
  


 

 

When she finally forces herself to go back inside, the rest of Amagi’s teammates have left, and Grandfather has made himself scarce. He stands awkwardly in the middle of the shop floor, staring down unseeing at the cover of Atlantis Wall’s manual, only looking up when she comes back inside.

She looks down when their eyes meet again, trudging past him on her way upstairs.

Numb to the world, she almost misses what Amagi says next.

“ _—’ll show him._ ”

Yukie pauses at the first step.

“I’ll… I’ll show him! I’m not going to take his words laying down! I may not have enough time to learn this move… I may not make it to the starting line up… but Raimon’s gonna win, and then… maybe…”

Finally, she turns back.

“...Amagi.”

“...Yeah?”

“I’m… sorry I stopped answering. I didn’t have the words back then, and then when I did, I figured… you’d moved on.”

It’s sudden, then, what happens next, but before she realizes it, Yukie’s wrapped into a hug.

“I’m sorry I kept running away.”

It’s been ages since she remembers a moment like this, and they stay at the bottom of the stairs in silence for a long moment.

“...You _will_ learn it in time, Amagi. But you’re not making any progress standing around in the shop.”

“Hey, are you kickin’ me out? Bah, you’re right, though. I’ve got a lot of work to do!”

Finally, he lets her go, tucks the manual under his arm, and beams brightly at her.

“Thanks… _Coach_.”

  
  
  
  


It is the first match in three years where Yukie is sitting with the crowd instead of her team. Her chest aches and her hands are folded tightly in her lap, but she does not let her gaze fall.

This time, she watches two.

It is a tense match, and Pinball Stadium does very little to help Raimon’s cause. Gen’ei has known about the stadium tricks for a week, of course, and ran drills to work around them. Their opponents are making things up as they go, discovering tricks on the fly.

It’s painful to watch from above.

Mahoro and Amagi cross paths once with no luck, and the ball goes in.

The second time, there’s slightly more of a struggle, but again Maboroshi Shot goes through.

But that’s the funny thing about Raimon: every time they get knocked down, they come back up swinging. They take back the goals they lose. When Housuiin substitutes the poor first year goalie for his shadow Hakono, she leans forward in her seat. He’s only brought in when their coach is perturbed at their plays.

The third time Mahoro and Amagi cross paths, it’s close.

But the fourth time, something incredible happens.

Rising from the depths, towering over everyone else on the pitch. At the top, Amagi stands, undaunted, confident. She can feel his smile from her seat.

Atlantis Wall.

It’s _beautiful_.

When the final whistle sounds, they’re stuck in a deadlock, dribbling against each other, not stopping until well after the crowd has erupted into applause. They both drop down to the grass, exhausted.

  
  
  


She finds the both of them sitting at the bottom of a stairway. Side by side, talking low, shoulders relaxed. She watches for a long moment, and fishes her wallet out of her pocket, where the picture of the smiling children beams back at her.

Yukie walks down and does not wait until they notice her to ask, “Would the two of you… like to hang out this weekend?”

  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They end up back between the balance posts.

Mahoro, leaning against one of them, hands in his pockets. There’s hesitance written into his features, an unsure look in his eyes. Amagi sits, arms resting across the soccer ball in his lap, making slightly-onesided small talk as Mahoro nods.

They both look up when she approaches, and climbs carefully back to the highest perch to sit. It doesn’t feel as high, now that she’s fifteen, but she still likes the view.

Amagi’s small talk dies down, and for a while, they say nothing, taking in the sunshine and the distant sound of kids playing on the other side of the park.

“...I’m… sorry,” is how Mahoro finally breaches the subject, hanging his head. His usual stoic expression breaks and he grimaces as he closes his eyes.

“For many things. I do not think I can be forgiven for a lot of things I’ve said and done. But I wanted the both of you to know.”

Amagi looks thoughtful for a moment before replying. “Coach Endou’s told us some… stuff. We’ve seen some stuff, too. It… hurt, _a lot_. What you said. But I always wanted to believe you were still in there somewhere.”

“After all that.” Mahoro shakes his head and chuckles under his breath before looking up at Yukie.

“I… will tell Coach Housuiin on Monday that you are feeling much better, and that he should reinstate you, or… or risk losing his captain for the rest of the year.”

“ _Mahoro..._ ”

“Wha _—_ you got fired from being a _manager?!_ How is that even possible?”

Amagi’s shock is enough to force their hands, and Yukie cannot help but smile. Mahoro does, too. For the first time in three years, there’s light back in his eyes.

“Mahoro… you don’t have to do that.”

“I _want_ to.”

The soccer ball lands with a _thud_ onto the grass as Amagi stands and stretches.

“Y’know, we’re just sitting around here… do you wanna play soccer? Like we used to?”

Mahoro’s pushed off the balance post and all but stolen the ball in the time it takes for him to finish the sentence, yelling _too slow!_ over his shoulder. Amagi whines and follows it hot pursuit.

Kousaka Yukie still believes there’s some sort of magic left in the world, if at the end of it all, they can start again, fated to still be by each other’s sides.

 

 

 

Yukie is grinning from ear to ear as she jumps off her perch to join them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for joining in! this was a learning experience. extended author's notes and general discussion can be found at my inazuma blog over at jounetsulovers on tumblr.


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